


happy happy happy

by Askance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Horror, POV Experimental, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askance/pseuds/Askance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day is Amara's birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	happy happy happy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [octopifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopifer/gifts).



_Think about it, sweet girl—_

_Every day's your birthday!_

_After all—_

_You were before were was;_

_Breathed before breath_

_And all of that nonsense._

_What's time? Time doesn't even know_

_Your name. You ticked before tick tocked._

_Now,_

_Know this—_

_And any time you like,_

_We will throw a grand old party_

_Just for you._

* * *

 

_Now give her anything she wants._

So says the King. So we go like rats,

which he would say we are,

back and forth, up and down, looking for a gift

to make the little princess smile.

We've come to think of her this way;

the alternative is awful. We scatter,

scrabble, grab, nab,

scared out of our wits; if she hates

the things we bring her, the King won't hesitate

to serve us up on silver platters.

We don't want to go. 

 

One of us, just once, was there

at just the perfect angle,

and described for all the rest

the awful yawning cavern of her throat,

a pit to put our own to shame,

and how he thinks, but isn't sure,

that he heard screaming from inside.

 

We don't want to die!

He sits her on his own throne, like

the daughter we're all glad he never had.

We recognise her dress: satin pink and slathered in 

old blood.

We feel a gut punch—how we miss Her, 

terrible as she was. At least  _she_ never ate us

in great handfuls. 

 

We bring her things that make her

clap her hands in glee.  _Mein Kampf,_ first

print. Bouquets of innocents plucked

from far reaches where they landed by mistake; 

they flower, wilt, and cry, and when they cry for God 

she laughs _. Oh silly!_ she says, and takes

a mouthful.

Someone finds the Head of John the Baptist— _show-off._

And when she's bored

and drowning in wrapping paper

and tangled in ribbons,

we bring her cake, and sweets, and tarts,

and marzipan and castles made

of sugar, anything and everything

to keep her mind off  _us._

 

The newest-newest nanny tells us

how quickly she fell asleep,

holding her two-headed Demikhov dog

like the sweetest little thing you've ever seen.

* * *

 

_Again?_ we ask, despairing.

_Look,_ says the King,  _don't question me,_

_or would you rather show up to the party_

_in a catering dish?_

 

Amara, little princess,

only smiles when gifts appear;

her lack of glee disturbs us.

We panic, rush for better things, stripping down

cathedrals of their jewels,

ossuaries of their bones,

humans of their souls.

We bring her crates, hat-boxes,

traveling chests and Tupperware,

anything that might delight her

and— _relief—_ it does, although

we can't be sure the panic in our eyes

isn't what delights her most.

 

The cakes are bigger, richer, baked

in hellfire embers. 

 

When her little face is smeared with crumbs,

and icing tangles in her hair,

and she's all worn out from tearing open

boxes, bodies, brains,

she claps her hands, commands us all

to dance for her.

We dance and dance until we break

our ankles, and finally

she hums her way to bed.

* * *

 

_Again, again._ The King stands in the hallways,

shouting, sweating. In her room

we know Amara's waiting

for parades of toys, balloons,

morbidities, diseases.

Nuclear warheads to ride like rocking horses,

half of the M ü tter and more;

in the last eight hours she's taken a liking

to the idea of dead nuns.

We bring a convent. She remarks 

upon their bitterness. Insists we stuff

the Mother Superior as decoration

for her room. 

She prances through the throne room

in Sister Ignatius' wimple.

 

(Up above, executives are panicking

as the owner of the  _Cake Boss_ bakery

tragically goes missing;

he's here, and working frantically,

on pain of worse-than-death.

Awful, honestly. We loved that show.)

 

This is the fifteenth birthday in a row.

We've stripped the world of almost every

awful thing that we could think of,

save ourselves. We worry

that there's not much left

to give her.

* * *

 

_Again?_ we wheeze, too aware

of quotas and neglected souls,

empty crossroads. How can he

expect us to keep up like this?

Thirty-seven birthdays in,

she shows no signs of slowing.

 

Fresh infants that we bring her

are sweeter than our cakes.

She eats their hearts and eyes—

they pop like Pop Rocks.

Handful after handful. 

We bring her angels, ghouls,

sour ghosts and screaming djinn,

anything and everything that we can snatch

or trap or grab. The little princess is

a connoisseur.

 

We have trampled bows and paper 

so deep into the floor

that we no longer see the stones.

We will not mention

how the King looks caught

like deer in headlights.

_This can't go on_ , we tell him.  _She'll eat us all_

_and you besides. You're spoiling her,_ we say.

 

_What am I supposed to do?_ he snaps.  _Tell her_

NO?

We shrink at that. He's right, we know.

Her mouth is big enough

to swallow all the universe.

* * *

 

One-hundred eighty birthdays down.

We're dwindling in numbers.

She eats great gorges of us,

hungry all the time,

tired of deformed skulls and

fetal cats. Nothing

entertains her. What do you get

for the girl who has everything?

 

Some of us go to her willingly—

anything for the birthdays to stop.

We hear them shrieking from inside her,

pounding at her belly,

screaming to be saved.

 

We can't go on like this.

Hell is stripped to studs.

* * *

 

Today we wait at the door to her room,

crowding, while newest-newest-newest nanny

rouses her from sleep amongst

her silken rompers, baby bones, her

rugs of human skin. 

_Good morning, Amara,_ she says,

her voice packed thick with nerves.

_And what would you like_

_to do today?_

We hold our breaths collectively,

hoping against hope,

praying to anyone and anything, regardless

of their feelings on us. 

 

_Oh,_ she says—we hear her stretching, little

bones cracking, her great throat yawning,

and raise our eyes to Heaven—

please, oh please, oh please,

let her tire of all these birthdays!

 

_Oh,_ she says,  _today, I think,_

_I'd like to have a party!_

_With cake and presents, all of it._

_Go tell my Uncle Crowley._

 

We want to cry, or break apart. We shuffle

from the door. 

 

Hell is aptly named, we think,

since Crowley brought her  home.

 


End file.
